When I was little, Sunday meant church, and after church, Sunday meant Grandma’s. My great-grandma would be there too, and Grandma would have a real Sunday dinner waiting—the kind that involved mashed potatoes and gravy and, naturally, dessert.
Dessert at Grandma’s was something worth saving room for. People around town and in the community would hire her to make pies and buns because she made the best around. My favorite was her homemade chocolate cream pie, followed closely by her lemon meringue, with meringue piled sky-high, perfectly toasted on top and those little beads of moisture that always seemed to form across it. Nobody was counting carbs at Grandma’s house.
Afterward, us girls would help with the dishes. It was technically work, but there were generations of women crowded into that kitchen, washing and drying, snapping dish towels at each other and carrying on like the “ninnies” Grandma called us. She had spent hours preparing all that food, and cleaning up was simply how we pitched in and loved her back.
Eventually Grandpa might settle in for a nap, while my sisters and I sometimes stayed to play Kings in the Corner, Crazy Eights or board games with Grandma and my aunts. By supper, nobody needed another big meal, so we had popcorn or sandwiches before settling in to watch The Wonderful World of Disney and The Waltons.
It sounds almost ridiculously idyllic and old-fashioned now, but wow, those really were the days.
Looking back, the real gift wasn’t the food. It was the feeling. Those Sundays were like being wrapped in one big hug, and without realizing it, we were learning what family meant. You showed up, pitched in, listened to the stories, laughed together and learned where you came from.
The tradition didn’t end with Grandma. When my kids were little and we lived nearby, my mom carried it on. We gathered at my parents’ house while the kids ran around and played, creating their own version of the memories my sisters and I had made.
Then our kids grew up. Jobs, homes and obligations took them in different directions, and getting everyone together became harder. I realized it was my turn. Grandma had created the gathering place for us, Mom had carried it forward, and now I could be the gathering place.
I started inviting whichever kids could make it, along with my mom and dad and my mother-in-law. I prepared the food, or Phil grilled, and cleanup was considerably easier thanks to dishwashers—the mechanical kind, not a kitchen full of ninnies armed with dish towels.
We told stories and learned things about our parents and our family history that we hadn’t known before, but the education went both ways. Once you’re 50-plus, you finally feel reasonably safe telling your parents what you actually did as a teenager. Now our adult kids have started returning the favor by telling us things they did that we definitely did not know about.
Sunday dinner, as it turns out, occasionally comes with confessions.
Then Dad got sick. Life got serious and hard, and Sunday dinners fell away for a while. Over the past couple of months, I’ve been trying to bring them back, although they’re different now. My mom and my mother-in-law have both lost their husbands, Phil and I have both lost our dads, and we know someone is missing from the table.
But Mom and my mother-in-law are still here, our kids are still here, and we’re still here. Getting together gives us something familiar to return to and something to look forward to.
Sometimes Sunday dinner means our favorite Mexican restaurant in Bellevue. My mother-in-law always orders a bean burrito with cheese sauce, my mom always gets tacos, and so do I, with guacamole on the side, although occasionally I get wild and order a tostada. Phil is the only one who actually needs to see the menu.
This summer, Mom and my mother-in-law especially liked our “Ice Cream Sundays.” After dinner, we’d get ice cream at The Korner Stop Ice Cream Shoppe and take a drive together. It doesn’t look much like Sunday dinner at Grandma’s, but I’ve realized the tradition doesn’t have to look the same to still do the same thing. It keeps us connected.
When everyone is around my dining room table, talking, laughing and telling stories, I have this overwhelming sense of gratitude because this is what matters. Maybe it sounds a little mystical, but sometimes I swear the energy from all those dinners—the love, laughter, stories and people—is embedded in the walls. It’s one reason I don’t know if I could ever sell this house. How do you leave a room that holds that much of your life?
I think about Grandma when I’m the one gathering everyone together. I loved her so much, and I like knowing I’m doing what she did for us. If she were still here, I’d pull out another chair and she’d be sitting at my table too.
Someday, I hope my kids remember their favorite things I made for them, but even more, I hope they remember sitting around the table with their parents and grandparents, hearing the stories, laughing and learning where they came from. When I’m old, maybe I’ll walk into one of their houses for Sunday dinner and hear some of those same stories being told to another generation.
Maybe Sunday dinner was never really about Sunday. Maybe it was about staying connected to our roots, our history and the people who show up when we need them.
Maybe the important thing is simply that we keep gathering, because every time we do, we’re holding on to where we came from while creating something for the generations that come next.
And knowing that a little bit of Grandma’s Sunday dinner is still being passed from one generation to another?
That’s something good.
What did Sunday dinner—or your family’s version of it—look like when you were growing up, and is there a tradition you’re still carrying on?
Here’s to finding light in unexpected places.
Anyway—off we go. 
© 2026 Erica Shoemaker. All rights reserved.
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